


War

by CrimsonFirebreeze



Series: Hiddles Diddles [20]
Category: Tom Hiddleston - Fandom
Genre: Emotional Hurt/Comfort, F/M, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Support
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-09-20
Updated: 2013-09-20
Packaged: 2017-12-31 17:36:33
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 929
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1034463
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CrimsonFirebreeze/pseuds/CrimsonFirebreeze
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Tom is watching his wife struggle with thoughts of self-harm and he feels powerless to help her. All he can do is gently urge her to do something a little more productive than hurting herself and hope she listens</p>
            </blockquote>





	War

**Author's Note:**

> Wrote this during an emotional breakdown. It was a long time coming and literally this was me that night.
> 
>  
> 
> This is all from Tom’s perspective.

I don’t think I have ever been so terrified in my life. Not this kind of terror. This is foreign to me and I cannot begin to fathom how to handle the situation I am presented with. I thinks I’ve lost her this time. I think she’s gone for good and I don’t want her to be. I don’t want these things to be hurting her, ripping her very soul asunder, but they are and I am powerless to stop it. I am just a man and I don’t know how to protect her.

She’s been staring at the Google homepage on her computer for half an hour now, eyes unfocused. A few times, fat tears start rolling down her cheeks in rapid succession but she makes no sounds. The occasional sniffle here or there, but there are no sobs, no squeaks, no hint. Her brows furrow slightly and the tears come. And then they are gone, her face relaxes and she is blank until the cycle starts again.

Goosebumps cover her arms and fade again and she clenches her fists. She’s thinking of cutting. I cannot tell her to stop. She doesn’t want me being able to read her, but I can. It’s obvious to me. She’s arguing with her eleven year old self, the part of her frozen in time. I can see it in how wide her eyes are. As disturbing as it and the reasons behind it can be at times, it is a part of her I love dearly. She retains the ability to see the world with childlike wonder. Se can imagine fantastical and impossible things and she does it without shame and without second guessing herself, as children do. It is where her stories are born from and it is the very core of who she is as a person.

I can see the battle taking place in her from where I stand. She’s curled herself into a tiny ball, legs all tucked up close and her netbook balanced on her thigh. That’s the child; scared, vulnerable and small. Her mouth is set in a grim line and her eyebrows have set themselves in that crooked way they have when she’s concentrating. That’s the woman; determined, stubborn and proud. And somewhere in the middle of all that is where the two meet to form the whole package that i have come to adore.

I sit on the bed and she hardly acknowledges me, except to curl tighter and flick her eyes my way a moment before they focus on the screen in front of her again. I know she meant to write, to keep her hands occupied and away from sharp objects. But instead she is captured in a place without time, where her past and her present meet and fight. I want to touch her, let her know I am here for her, but I don’t know how it will be accepted and I fear making it worse for her.

Her eyes settle on me, but she will not meet my gaze. I know she can’t in this moment. Instead, she stares at a point somewhere on my chest. She’s still not fully here with me and it takes me a moment to realize she isn’t even seeing me anymore. She, herself, looks more like a child that has been overly-chastised, one who believes everything bad in the world is somehow their fault.

“Kitten,” I call gently. Her eyebrow quirks, letting me know that some part of her is trying to answer. I call to her softly again, this time touching her hand. Her eyes meet mine and I watch the change from child to woman. And she is exhausted. Whatever war is raging inside her is wearing her down. I am not surprised to see death dancing in her eyes. I used to be afraid of of it, but I learned that she is too much piss and venom to give in easily. Her face contorts and she looks away quickly. She’s thought of losing me.

“Write something, darling,” I urge gently and she fixes me with a half-glare. “Please, my love? Write.”

She sighs in that way that tells me I have won and she opens a new document on her computer. There is no hesitation before her fingers are moving over the keyboard. I decide I should leave her be to do this on her own and stand.

“Thomas, stay,” she says, her voice is small and when I look at her, she is watching me with wide eyes over the top of her screen, the same wide eyes my stepdaughter gets when she begs me not to leave before I have to go on location. Like mother, like daughter.

I sit again and she immediately returns to her typing. I gently take her ankles in my hands and make her stretch her legs out before her knees can painfully protest to her position. It doesn’t even phase her in the slightest. I begin to massage a foot and that does make her pause. She looks up at me and I wait for her to tell me that I am being distracting. But she doesn’t. Instead, the tiniest hint of a smile pulls at her mouth. And then she is typing again, focused on her computer while I try to sort out the mess that is her left ankle and foot. It isn’t much, but it’s a start. I can breathe easier now that she is picking up her broken pieces and doing so with me beside her.


End file.
